New narration up at Drabblecast

Norm Sherman kindly invited me to participate in “Drabblecast 110: Trifecta VII“, wherein I narrate Ralph Gamelli’s “Sheltered”.  My piece appears alongside rather heady company, sandwiched as it is between stories narrated by Norm (the voice of Drabblecast) and Frank Key (of the hilarious Hooting Yard, one of the few podcasts simultaneously as strange and clever as Drabblecast).

What’s Great In Podcast Fiction

This blog has been littered with posts about narration gigs, and little else, for the past several months. Since I’m clearly locked on the topic of podcast fiction these days, I thought I’d take a moment to steer you towards the shining stars of the craft– shows in general, and episodes in particular, that I think are worth your time:

Drabblecast declares itself a purveyor of “strange stories by strange authors for strange listeners”… and yes, that’s about right. Seriously, some of their stuff is way out there, to the point that this show’s probably not for everybody. But the production is top-notch, the “Drabbles” (stories of exactly 100 words) and “Bardles” (songs written and produced for financial supporters) entertaining, and the stories range from thought-provoking to brilliant. Recent episodes of note: “Boiled Black Broth and Cornets” by Frank Key (very strange but compelling), “The Last Dog” by Mike Resnick (quite touching), and David D. Levine’s  “Babel Probe” (brilliant all-around episode that should win buckets of awards).

Escape Pod was, as has been previously noted, among my first experiences with podcast fiction. Steve Ely has created an honest-to-goodness paying market for authors; his is among the first and best in the field. Recent episodes of note: Merrie Haskell’s “Reparations” (time travel to post-nuke Japan) and Sara Genge’s “Family Values” (sex and politics with wildly non-human aliens).

Seventh Son “The President of the United States is dead. He was murdered in the morning sunlight by a four-year-old boy…” J.C. Hutchins’ podcast novel trilogy has drawn tens of thousands of listeners over the past few years, and deservedly so: this techno-thriller can really grab and hold your attention. I picked up on it late and gobbled up the first two books over the span of a few months; I became quite distraught when I eventually caught up and had to wait a week between new episodes.

Starship Sofa is where I got my narration start. Tony Smith’s show has evolved into an ambitious audio magazine– very much like a podcast version of F&SF or Asmiov’s. In addition to flash and short fiction, Tony’s contributors provide fact articles, on topics from the history of speculative ficion to science and publishing news. Recent episodes of note: In addition to recent broadcasts of every Nebula-nominated short story, Ted Chiang’s award-winning “Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate” is one of the freshest takes on time travel I’ve heard in years.
American listeners: plow through a couple of episodes before you declare Tony’s accent incomprehensible.

Honorable mentions that didn’t make the above list, largely because of my personal tastes:

Scott Siegler was another pioneer in original podcast fiction and has a rabid fanbase.

Escape Pod’s sisters Pseudopod (horror) and Podcastle (fantasy) are excellent in their respective genres.

StarShipSofa narration

A quick note to fans of audio sci-fi: I’ve made my debut over at starshipsofa.com, narrating Sebastien Cevey’s flash piece “Fork Bomb” for Aural Delights # 50. Tony Smith (captain of said podcast) was pleased with my maiden effort, enough so that he’s giving me a longer piece for a future episode. I’ll not go into much detail about this project at this time– partly because it’s not done yet, but mostly because it’s a very challenging piece that I may not be able to translate into quality audio. The author is frankly amazed that Tony and I are even attempting an audio rendition of this story, as it is (in his words) “crazy, really crazy”. I should wrap initial recording in the next day or two, and have a rough production in Mr. Smith’s hands by the middle of the week, so stay tuned.

(PODCAST) Episode 1 Now Available!

Episode 1 of the X-Ray Visions Podcast is now available for download:

Download Episode 1
Download Episode 1 (clean version)

Click the above icon to download, or just hover your mouse pointer and use the WordPress Snap Shots popup to play the file.

IN THIS EPISODE: Introduction to the X-Ray Visions Podcast / Car Horns ≠ Social Tools /  On Ogrish Poetry / Rights As Wrongs / Excerpts From the Book of Surliness / What’s In a Name? Pure Evil. / Degrees of Conceit / The Postmaster’s Door

CONTENT ADVISORY: This podcast, much like this blog, contains some strong language. On the off chance that your kids would want to listen to something like this… well, don’t let them. If they insist that they can’t get along in life without the half-crazed ramblings of a middle-aged Ohioan in their earbuds, the clean version bleeps out most of the naughty words (though it’s that half-bleeping, like South Park does, where you hear “f(BLEEP)ck” and can sort of guess what’s in the middle).

If you’re not yet acquainted, this program is, in essence, me reading some of (what I feel are) the more compelling posts from this blog, along with some new, previously unpublished, material. I must say: as strange as it is to reread some of the stuff I’ve written, it’s even more unusual to hear my own voice reading it back.

Special thanks to Atticus Hyde for loaning me some of their original music for the show.

(FLASH FICTION) The Postmaster’s Door

When it comes to correct postage, I’m somewhat obsessive. So it was that, while confirming for the third time that my bills were all properly stamped, Ethan slipped away.

Just around the corner, thank God, and not even out the door. Still, I panicked for a moment, flashes of kidnappers and police and will my wife ever forgive me numbing my brain, before I found him, staring up at the Postmaster’s door.

My panic subsided, replaced with a muted, oily unease. In Norwalk, you see, we store our monsters in the post office, behind the door labeled “Postmaster”.

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Surely you’ve noticed that the Postmaster’s door is far too large– something like eight feet tall, and half as wide. Maybe you’ve wondered why the Postmaster never seems to enter or exit the door, or why in an otherwise shiny, modern facility, this one door reeks of antiquity and disuse. Perhaps you’ve even asked yourself, who is our Postmaster? Does anybody know?In truth, an imposing slab of oak and brass such as this has only one purpose: to secure, out of sight, our local crop of unspeakable horrors.

Behind the door is a vault, and it is quite thoroughly impenetrable. Aside from two layers of stone and mortar behind a near-seamless envelope of blackened iron, the vault is wrapped in enchantment and sealed within the collective will of our Shadow Council. At each corner of the vault: the mortal remains of a fallen priest, bricked alive into the works centuries previous, long-dead souls paying an endless penance in service to the living. These eight spectres shriek and hiss at the vault’s inhabitants, and though the imprisoned monstrosities rage at their captivity, they are afraid, and huddle far from the vault door.

Once every a few years, the guardians fall silent, the enchantments falter, and there comes a terrible pounding at the door. It is then that additional measures must be taken.

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I have no immediate fear for Ethan’s life. For now, the door and the vault behind are secure, and as the Shadow Council already took both of his sisters– three and seven years ago– they will not ask for my son’s blood, even when the beasts inevitably challenge the door again.Still, I am afraid. It is clear that Ethan will come to know the vault… but from which side of the Postmaster’s door?

(FICTION) On Ogrish Poetry

The following lacks words, plot, and characters enough to be as a short story, or even a piece of “flash fiction”. In truth, it hardly qualifies as a vignette. Still, I had this fragment of an idea, and started typing.

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As far as anyone could make out, there was no reason for Ogres to be the absolute best poets in the Known Lands.  As a species, their command of the spoken word was dubious, their understanding of the underlying tenets of grammar and usage doubtful, and such niceties as simile, tone, and anapestic tetrameter demonstrably beyond their grasp.  And yet, Ogrish poets consistently produced works of thunderous depth and soul-shattering truth.  That the quills were most often gripped with a full fist and inked with the blood of unwary travellers was immaterial, as were the green-tinted drool spots that adorned the original texts.  The spelling was horrific (the Guild of Prose routinely flung budding authors into deep ravines to appease Kairpoln, Undergod of Easily Corrected Errors, for lesser offenses), but such trivial blemishes only served to underscore the brilliance of the material.  As Manumon The Exceptionally Long-Lived said: “To hear the message of a god is the highest honor, even if he is belching the words.”